


Will You Still Love Me

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In bed, Sherlock never says “no” to John. It doesn’t matter if he’s not in the mood. John deserves to get something from their relationship, at least satisfying sex. That’s how relationships work, right?</p><p>It was supposed to be a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1036368?view_adult=true">It Comes with Experience</a>, with gentle and loving John taking care of Sherlock, traumatized by his previous liaison. But I somehow wrote an angsty thing instead. Again. So it can be read as a stand-alone piece too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Still Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas mugenmine and primalmusic!

Sherlock wakes up with a start. There’s a hand resting heavily on his flank, and something solid and meaty is pressing into the crease of his buttocks. The first impulse is panic, uncontrolled, visceral. An urge to worm out, stealthily, and flee.

Sherlock holds on to his sleep-dulled senses and slowly catalogues the comforting signs: mattress—firm—innerspring; no street noise—a window facing a quiet courtyard; hand—broad palm—forefinger slightly calloused. It’s John’s bed—and it’s John. It’s all right.

Sherlock hates himself for reacting like this, jerking back into consciousness in the middle of the night and almost darting off, without thinking, in sheer terror. Maybe it’s the faint scent of alcohol that for a few moments has reduced his mind to a mess of doubt and fear. But that’s no excuse. John doesn’t deserve it. He’s been so patient, so gentle, all the time. Maybe even too gentle, like Sherlock needs special treatment, like he’s damaged and fragile, which is ridiculous. He’s in perfectly good health.

Tonight, Sherlock had insisted they try something rougher. John had turned out to be more easily persuaded when just a little bit drunk, so rough it had been, with the hollow thuds of the headboard against the wall, and the bottom sheet pulled off from the corners of the mattress, and the slick sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and his own husky voice, “Harder!”

It had seemed like a good idea at the moment, and for quite some time afterwards when they’d been lying together, stark naked, all sweaty and sated, their hearts hammering wildly. But now Sherlock is still sore between the legs; he can feel how brutally he's been stretched, and perhaps it’s some kind of unwanted body memory that makes him feel like he’s been used—just an inanimate object, disposable, worthless as soon as he can’t be used again. And what's even worse, up to some point he'd enjoyed it.

All he wants to do is to curl in on himself, wrapped in self-loathing and empty inside, and it’s so hateful not only because it’s something incredibly irrational but because it’s so unjust to John. It’s nothing like that between them, it’s not John’s fault. He only did what Sherlock asked him. John should never know of all these deplorable histrionics and panic attacks. No need to make him worried and more troubled than he is.

There’s another problem, and not a psychological one. Enduring another encounter tonight would be problematic, put mildly, and yet there’s a solid, proud erection grinding into his buttocks. John has a remarkably short refractory period for a man of his age, and it’s good of course, just maybe not now.

Perhaps Sherlock would have got used to having sex more than once in a night if he were accustomed to sharing a bed with someone. Back at uni, Seb hadn’t liked Sherlock falling asleep by his side, too uncomfortable with someone seeing them together in the morning and learning about their liaison. The one time they had dozed off together in bed, both not quite sober, Sherlock finally snuggling up to his first boyfriend, had turned out very ugly when Seb had woken up. Sherlock had never dared to stay afterwards.

John is different. He doesn’t mind cuddling after sex and stroking Sherlock’s hair, lulling him to sleep. John is so perfect that Sherlock feels he doesn’t deserve it.

John shifts behind him, mumbles in a sleep-clogged voice, “You’re awake?” His hand slides down to Sherlock’s thigh—a light caress but it makes Sherlock tense. He bends his leg, partially to hide that he’s not aroused, unlike John, and partially to give John better access. “Lube. On the nightstand. On your side,” he reminds helpfully. Perhaps it won’t really hurt if it’s just a quick, half-asleep shag. They’re lying spoonlike; the penetration won’t be as deep as in some other positions. And even if it hurts, he can bear it.

John laughs quietly and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Insatiable.”

Does that mean “slut” in John’s language? He’s never said “no” to John—in bed. They argue a lot about other things, as they always have, and John calls him stubborn, and flails his hands at him in despair. But sex is something that can help him make it up to John, so whatever and whenever John wants, it’s fine. Sherlock suggests things that John’s too hesitant to ask for, and he likes it all himself, mostly. When he doesn’t, or when he’s not in the mood, he still never turns John down. John should get something from their relationship. That’s how relationships work.

Sherlock wonders if he’s finally made progress in John’s eyes, from an inept lover who needs special care to an experienced sex enthusiast. If so, is that good? Sherlock thought he wanted this, wanted John finally to stop making a fuss over him. Now, for some reason, it doesn’t seem like a good prospect, but of course it had to be over sooner or later, all the excessive tenderness and patience, and maybe it’s for the best if it ends sooner and reverts to _normal_ , to the way it should be, otherwise John will get tired of a lover who only causes constant concern.

Sherlock would rather feel used and downtrodden after having sex (it’s just stupid, an unreasonable phantom ache in his chest, he can ignore it) than leave John unsatisfied. Sherlock makes their life complicated enough outside the bedroom. There should be some rest and pleasure for John, and sex is the only way to achieve it that he can imagine.

The kisses skim lower down Sherlock’s spine. If Sherlock weren’t so tense, waiting for what’s about to happen, John would have got him purring by now. John has taken time to explore all the sweet spots that make Sherlock arch his back and buck his hips and groan out loud; John knows where he’s sensitive and how to elicit the right reaction from him. And what matters the most is that John is doing all this.

Sherlock can’t but admit he’ll miss the long foreplay. He’ll also miss loose embraces that don’t necessarily lead to sex. It’s something he’d never had. But it needs to stop. John has been far too generous; it can’t always be like their first time together, like the first weeks together, full of cautious affection. John’s been good at preparing him for a regular sex life; taking Sherlock’s inexperience into consideration, he’s been kind not to push too far. Maybe it’s time to let him know that he _may_.

John pulls the duvet away, gently guides Sherlock to turn so that he lies onto his stomach. Sherlock grabs fistfuls of sheet. All right. It’s all right. They can do it this way too.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, about the lube, right now,” John mutters. “You must be still tender after—um—tonight.” Kisses go further down to the small of Sherlock’s back. “But we could do something else if you want to—”

John slightly squeezes Sherlock’s buttocks, one in each palm, and eases them apart. And then… _Oh god_. Sherlock yelps, loudly, as John’s tongue licks a broad wet stripe across his hole.

John kisses the inside of Sherlock’s butt cheek. “Yeah. Lots of nerve endings there.”

The tip of John’s tongue slowly makes a circle around his anus, probes at the centre. It should be him pleasing John like this, and not vice versa.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sherlock tells him urgently, his voice suddenly gone husky, and John must feel something is off. He moves back up the bed, noses into Sherlock’s hair.

“Something’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” It isn’t meant to sound insulting and defensive, but it does.

“Did I hurt you?”

John shouldn’t sound so guilty. Sherlock takes a deep breath, exhales into the pillow, then turns to face John. John’s eyes look black in the darkness. “All I’m saying is that you don’t need to do it,” Sherlock repeats, trying to appear calm and reasonable but only blabbering instead. “I thought you wanted to—have intercourse—but you don’t have to take extra effort to turn me on. We can proceed without that.” His hand sneaks to palm John’s cock only to find that John isn’t hard anymore. “I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock promises, with nervous fervour. John not wanting him because he acted incorrectly is so much worse than John wanting him when he’s not quite willing.

“Sherlock, stop,” John says harshly, and Sherlock obeys at once, freezes in apprehension.

John’s hand touches his cheek. “Are you… afraid of me?”

“Of course not.” It might have sounded quite convincing in the dark, had he not flinched at the touch the moment before that. He’s not afraid of John, and he never will be, it’s just the faint smell of alcohol and his damn body reacting as if on its own. “I’m not,” Sherlock repeats with a sigh. “You’re too good a man, and maybe that’s the problem. You’re being too kind, too gentle, and you treat me like...”

“…like I care?” John suggests when Sherlock searches for the right words.

“What I mean is,” Sherlock continues with resolve, “you don’t need to. I can handle much more rough play, believe me. I’d rather you enjoy yourself than try to pleasure _me_. I don’t want you to grow bored, and then tired of me because you think I need coddling.”

At first, John is silent, but his thumb starts drawing small circles against Sherlock’s earlobe, and Sherlock slowly relaxes into the familiar caress. At least John’s not angry with him.

“Have you ever thought that I like it, being gentle with you?” John says at last. “Have you ever entertained the possibility that it will always be this way, huh? Me, loving you. Making you feel good. There’s nothing boring in it for me. I might enjoy rough play, as you call it, from time to time, but generally, I’m good with what we usually do. That’s what satisfies me. I can’t imagine getting tired of it, or of you.”

Sherlock can’t help a jab—“That says a lot about your imagination,”—and instantly regrets it. Fortunately, John only chuckles in response. Leaning forward, he presses a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“I can show you how imaginative I am,” he promises, “but maybe not right now. Tell me honestly, would you rather go back to sleep than have sex, in whatever form?”

Sherlock lingers with the answer. “Won’t you be disappointed if we do?” he manages at last.

Another brief, undemanding kiss. “I won’t. I’d be disappointed if we had sex—and you didn’t enjoy it. If you want rough, you can ask for it. But if you ever don’t want _anything_ , at any time, you can tell me that too. It won’t change the way I feel about you if we skip sex some nights. When we both get old, maybe we won’t be having sex that often at all, and I’ll still be fond of you. And I don’t think I’ll ever stop caring, just because it’s been quite some time since we’ve been together.”

Sherlock considers it. “That’s… good.” He’s never thought of them getting old together, too concentrated on here and now, on not disappointing John this very moment. The idea is pleasant. “I suppose I feel this way too.”

John smiles at him in the dark. “I know. Now let’s go back to sleep.”

John pulls the duvet back over them both and snuggles in closer, and though Sherlock has always told himself that he’s not exactly the cuddling type, he feels that he could lie like this for a long, long time, aware that John is still awake beside him too, listening to Sherlock’s breathing, now calm and peaceful, and to every quiver of his beating heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to friend me on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/people/Katerina-Ross/100012647831003) or follow me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined! 
> 
> Aaand maybe you'd like to check out my novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav) and my paranormal M/M series [The Sons of Gomorrah](http://a.co/0ttTWNF) :)


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